Pistol Whipped
by PrettyBoyWithMe
Summary: The only thing Mickey Milkovich hates more than queers is his father, himself, and everything besides, well, Ian.
1. Ian Gallagher Asshole Extraordinaire

Disclaimer: First and foremost, the account holder and authors do in no way, shape, or form, own any characters, names, places, storyline plots, and so forth.

Disclaimer: This Fiction is the work of two authors who shall be duly credited upon publication of the next chapter. The account holder is one of the authors, as well as the editor. Please disregard all, if any, differentiation in the writing style.

Disclaimer: This Fic! Is rooted from a roleplay, rated M for sexual themes and content, language, and violent descriptions, as well as mental health stigma.

Disclaimer: The authors do not support the slurs used in character, in this fic

Author's Note: Hello my lovelies! I know that my main fic, Listen To The Thunder, is taking me a while to update and for that I apologize. However, here is a tasty, queer, Shameless (US) Gallavich fic for you to nom on. I recognize that I am first class Gallavich trash. Xoxo

" **Left, right, left right left**!" the drill sergeant shouted across the chilly schoolyard.

ROTC reminded Mickey a lot of juvie, with the chain link fence and orders barked incessantly. He shivered uncomfortably, both from the reminder and the cold.

At least the bastards could let them wear a fucking coat.

He sighed in irritation and refused to return the call. Mickey most definitely regretted his decision to join. Who the fuck gave him the bright idea to sign-up for this brainwashing? He looked at Ian out of the corner of his eye, his bright red hair tucked under the camo cap. Fuck, that asshole; but Mickey couldn't help letting out a barely perceptible smile. He planned to.

" **Milkovich**!" The sergeant shouted.

 _Oh shit_

He hadn't even done anything. He stood a bit straighter and looked forward gritting his teeth.

 _Don't freak out, don't freak out._

Still, his chest heaved uncontrollably and red edged at the corner of his eyes. He hated the way his heart sped whenever someone yelled at him, like he was some fucking pussy.

"Sir!" He responded through his teeth. He balled his hands in a fist and narrowed his eyes.

"Milkovich. **Step out of line**."

Mickey felt his stomach drop, and prepared to be humiliated somehow. Instead, the sergeant handed him the rifle tucked under his arm. Mickey's eyebrows rose in surprise, and he grinned. Finally, something he was comfortable with. He glanced at Ian out of the corner of his eye, hopeful to show off a bit.

" **Milkovich, have you read the manual? Do you feel confident that you could disassemble and reassemble this weapon**?" The sergeant shouted.

 _Fuck, why does everyone have to yell all the damn time_?

Mickey cleared his throat and nodded. "Sir yes sir!" He yelled back, a bit too fervently.

The sergeant gave him a warning look before nodding.

" **Proceed**!" He ordered.

Mickey let himself relax, leaned the butt of the rifle against his thigh, popped it apart in a few simple steps. It took him _maybe_ thirty seconds. He held the separate pieces out one at a time with a cocky grin on his face. He was about to snap everything back into place when the sergeant grabbed for the pieces.

"I thought you wanted me to-"

The older man cut him off shouting " **That WASN'T procedure**!"

Mickey felt the anger boil up again quickly, too quickly to stop it. His face heated in embarrassment.

"The fuck you mean procedure? _Who fucking cares_? That shit was sweet!" He protested crossing his arms.

The sergeant pressed up against him quickly. " **You're out of line Milkovich!** " He shouted into his face.

Without a moment's thought, Mickey pushed the man by his shoulders.

"What the fuck back off!" He protested. The sergeant moved off quickly and Mickey thought maybe he'd won.

" **Milkovich. That was INSUBORDINATION**!" He shouted.

Mickey wasn't surprised that he had snapped. This shit was not his thing; he couldn't handle all the shouting. It put him on the defensive quickly. He tried to catch his breath.

" **Walk it off**!" The sergeant shouted.

"Yeah, yeah." He mumbled, heading to the edge of the courtyard to run a few laps.

 _Fucking Gallagher_.

Ian cringed internally throughout the entire ordeal. He had offered to help Mickey study on multiple occasions, but the little pistol always seemed to have... other plans; and how could Ian resist anything other than frost coming from Mickey's stone cold eyes. Eyes he puzzled after. The mystery of Mickey Milkovich. The ginger often felt like one of the Scooby Doo gang, always trying to find out who was behind the mask. What sentimental bullshit.

" **Gal-la-gher**!" Spittle christened Ian's sweating brow. He had been so Goddamn lost in that fucking skanky Milkovich.

Mickey began his jog slowly, flicking his eyes away quickly when Ian's name was called. It felt good to be removed from the painfully aggressive order of the drill line.

That's it, he was fucking done; he'd tell Ian later.

He licked his lips self-consciously as he considered the other boy's potential disappointment. Ian had this really fucking annoying way of making him do exactly what he didn't want to do and he let out an irritated sigh knowing he would give it another shot if the red-head asked.

"Yes Sir!?" Ian tested his vocal chords, trying to contain the anger in his voice, chasing out those fleeting thoughts.

" **Do you think YOU can do better than that poor excuse for a cadet**?" The rifle was shoved under his nose. Gunpowder flared up his nostrils. It had been used before.

Ian took it, unsure, looking for Mickey's gaze from the fields. The last thing he needed was hell from Mick for 'showing off again'.

" **ARE YOU WAITING FOR THE SILVER PLATTER PRINCESS?** " Words like fire assaulted his ears, fear in his chest. The lesser of two evils.

The lesser.

Two.

Evils.

Mickey shook his head and closed his eyes as he rounded behind the cadets. He opened them again when he heard the sergeant shout in Ian's face. Slowing his pace, he caught those warm brown eyes. An eyebrow rose in his curiosity as to how Ian would react.

Pale, freckled hands delicately fluttered about, dismantling the gun. The Sergeant came the closest to looking pleased he ever could.

Ian Gallagher; asshole extraordinaire.

Mickey knew Ian wanted this more than him, but he also had seen Ian's temper first hand; sometimes their similarities made Mickey's stomach flutter in this awkward way.

The ginger made his choice, tossing the pieces together with rapid-fire. It clicked into place as he cocked it, the way Mickey had shown him.

Watching carefully, and recognizing his own behaviors and gestures as Ian snapped the thing back together, Mickey smirked in Ian's direction and threw him a wink before he could stop himself.

 _The fuck was that?_ Mickey wondered.

He felt his face heat again and he sped up his pace letting his embarrassment blossom into hot, comfortable anger burning in the bottom of his throat. He let his feet pound against the brown, frozen dust and he kept his eyes down

The sergeant snatched the gun and began to SCREAM.

Mick listened to the sergeant's shouting.

Didn't that asshole's mouth ever get tired? He listened until the words were just a blur of red pounding in his ears just like his father's constant noise. Motherfucking Hell; why would Ian even bother with him, such a waste of fucking space, pile of shit.

After a ten minute lecture on the importance of going by the book, and what can and will get you killed, Ian was sent to run laps. He picked a steady pace, and gazed around for his teacher.

Ian's skin spotted Mickey before his eyes, as crazy as it made him feel. He always KNEW when those cold eyes came roaming around; it sent a chill up his spine. He could outrun Mickey when it came to distance, but speed he wasn't so sure about.

Quickening his steady rhythm, Ian caught up.

Milkovich was channeling his rage deeply, gasping roughly, when he heard the patter of feet falling in time with his. Mickey slowed unconsciously and looked up to see Ian eager and energetic beside him. He was like a puppy that didn't know how to keep his shit calm. Mickey took a deep breath to calm the sting in his lungs from the cold air.

"Nice technique Gallagher," he commented with a shit-eating grin. "I bet that asshole's never even shot a gun," he bitched, letting his pace fall into rhythm with the redheads.

He felt the weird flutter return to his stomach. It was kind of nice to have a reason to hang out with Ian without all the sneaking around. He'd rather die than admit it.

Ian grinned, and playfully bumped his panting counterpart with his shoulder when Mickey commented on his display. He hadn't failed; soothing waves washed over his mind knowing the Milkovich wasn't displeased. "I have one hellova instructor." He chuckled low in his throat, shooting Mickey a cheeky smile. Being the gay Gallagher wasn't exactly fucking easy. Ian scolded himself internally for being so flirty at ROTC. This was his career, and nobody wanted a fag marine

Mickey fought his urge to throw himself into the fond playful push. Instead, he batted Ian away by the shoulder firmly and held back a flattered smirk. He nodded and kept running, fists balled tight. _Keep it together_ , he reminded himself when he felt a rush of warmth from Ian's breath rush across his neck. _Fuck_. He found himself slowly running closer to the redhead and as their arms lightly brushed, he looked over at the drill line, thankful that no one was looking. Ian's smile made his heart jump again.

"Yeah yeah, well when you gotta fuck someone up every other week it kinda comes with the territory," he shrugged dismissing the compliment.

Mickey watched Ian run out of the corner of his eye, captivated by the way his freckles blushed brighter as the cold air beat against their faces.

 **Pussy** , he could almost hear his dad grunt and he turned his eyes resolutely ahead.

Ian had reveled in his own tumbling thoughts for a moment too long, plummeting headfirst into the ground. Apparently, he was actually a blonde; he hasn't been watching his footing and had slipped on an icy patch.

Bam **BAM**

Mickey noticed the missing friction between them first and he looked behind him curiously. The shithead fell?

With a heaving grunt, he picked his head up, a minor gash graced his cheek. Blood trickled, and then flowed freely. "Well what the fuck how fucking perfect." Angry muttering proceeded.

Mickey let out a hearty laugh and ran back to where Ian had fallen. He crossed his arms and furrowed his brow in disbelief.

"Really? Fucking spaz," Mickey muttered with another chuckle. He looked around self-consciously before leaning down to help the redhead up.

It was then that Ian remembered Mickey. Mickey was there. He had watched him trip up like a bitch. Blood flushed his pale cheeks, causing his cut to bleed a little more. He made to stand, but steadied himself before he could do further damage. The ground swam up to meet him.

How fucking pathetic.

Mickey's eyes widened in fear when he noticed how out of it Ian looked and he hoisted the thin boy up quickly.

The intense heat that shot through him as he draped Ian's arm across his shoulder made him grit his teeth. "Hey, hey, you ok?" He asked, trying not to sound as worried as he was. Mickey's attention was glued to Ian's face and the deadness in his usually cinnamon eyes made Mickey feel nauseous. For a moment, he wasn't even thinking about all the other assholes there watching them.

Ian felt electricity crackle across his skin, jumping from freckle to freckle before hitting his spine. Then, a coldness took over.

Mickey.

"FuckImfinegetthefuckoff" he blurted with embarrassment at the flicker of... Something... In the little pistol's voice. He shrugged out of Mickey's touch, surprised at how homosensitive he was being today.

Mickey stiffened at the way that Ian pulled away, so suddenly distant. "Jesus, I'm just tryin ta fucking help," he murmured quietly, pulling himself inward quickly.

The flutter returned to his stomach and he flung out his arms in exasperation. Try to help a guy... he thought but he knew he would've done the same thing. He wanted to tell Ian that it was alright, that he hadn't meant anything by laughing. It's always fun and games till someone gets hurt, and then it's fucking hilarious; might as well be the Milkovich motto.

"I'm just a fucking klutz, okay?" Ian snapped quietly, brushing off any concern towards him. He smeared his hand across his cheek, wiping the blood elsewhere. He had lost his hat, which he grabbed quickly, and placed his camo crown across his reddened head. Ian was enveloped in this anger, even though he was shaking inside. He had to be fucking perfect for this hard ass masochist, or he'd never hear the end of it. Mick could, and OH he fucking would, bitch for _days_ about anything and gazed around to find the sergeant letting a piercing shriek from the whistle around his thick as fuck neck.

Mickey cringed at the sound of the whistle. He was back to hating everything, even with Ian his anger would only briefly lift, like someone drowning who manages to come up for a small breath of fresh air. He wished he could just go back home and beat the shit out of one of his cousins, let off some steam. Instead, he had to stand there in that fucking line like a robot. Mickey's eyes followed Ian as they ran in but he stayed a bit behind trying to breathe through the red hot irritation that had returned.

The ginger's caramel eyes grazed his -

Mickey's face -

As they ran back to the others. The dark haired man's face was blanketed by something unfamiliar. Snowflakes began to lazily drift from cottonball clouds, settling bright against Mickey's short hair.

The anger suddenly fled him, and there was serenity once more. He watched the way Mickey's muscles flexed as they ran, and felt the electricity dip below his belt. Ian quickly readjusted himself; he would handle that later.

Mick tried to focus on Ian's freckles again. Those bright dots kept him grounded as they lined up. Fucking freezing! He shivered as a snowflake melted down the back of his neck. He put his hands behind his back like a good little soldier and stood straight, expectant. Maybe if Ian saw him trying... but he barely had time to finish the thought before the sergeant rounded on the red-head. Was it fuck with the fag day or what? He wondered as anger flared through him again.

The Sergeant growled. " **Gallagher! 30 pushups, little girl. Let's go**!" Ian dropped immediately on the spot, not daring to look at Mickey. He felt his gaze, and it made him weak.

" **COME ON GALLAGHER!** "

Ten. Fifteen.

His head was pounding. His anger flared, performing barrel rolls amongst his thoughts. " **Are you a little girl? You can't do the pushups?** " The big man taunted him relentlessly.

"My baby sister does pushups just fucking fine." The ginger snapped at the final comment. This, of course, expelled a barrage of verbal bricks directly at Ian's aching head. If only he would just shut the fuck up. Sometimes, he wondered why he bothered with this shit.

Mickey was raging. What if Ian had seriously hurt himself, and now he was on the ground like a little bitch? He hated the way that the sergeant compared Ian to a girl; what the fuck difference did that make? Mandy could've probably taken out the thick-necked prick in a couple hits. He started to laugh uncontrollably and shook his head.

" **Something funny Milkovich**?" the sergeant asked. " **Maybe you should join your girlfriend!** " He ordered.

Mickey's stomach turned and the world went red. He didn't even hesitate before stepping out of line and throwing a hard uppercut at the sergeant's jaw. The asshole didn't flinch but Mickey didn't stop there; he socked the man in the gut and as his limbs began to swing out rabidly, the world receded. He was vaguely aware of the chaos around him as the cadets rustled and murmured and circled them. The sergeant didn't hit him back. Instead, he tried to pull Mickey's arm into a hold but the warm rage rushing through his blood kept him one step ahead of the bastard somehow.

"Come on you pussy! You too much of a girl to hit me back?" He shouted as the sergeant curled up on the ground taking a swift kick in the stomach. "Fuck me up!" He insisted, spit flying from his angry lips.

It was a flash of red, and another crash. Ian landed atop Mickey with fierceness in his eyes. "Malcolm Milkovich calm the fuck down." Ian hissed as inaudible as he could manage. Mickey's attention snapped back to reality as he felt familiar, tightly muscled arms wrapping around his own. He hated his full name, Ian fucking knew it too. He let out a few heaving grunts against the redhead and tried to calm himself as Ian demanded. The red had begun to recede and the grey world came into view when the sergeant flung the slur like an accusation at the two of them. Mickey jerked roughly against Ian's strong grip, kicking out with all his might. He hated how low his center of gravity was, he couldn't reach that asshole to kick him right in his shit-eating grin. He gave up after a few more failed jabs.

The sergeant grinned menacingly from the ground. "Welcome to Chicago's ROTC, fairies. We're going to have one hell of a time."

"I ain't no fucking fairy," he growled weakly, and his father's maniacal laugh echoed in his head.

After Ian let him go, his muscles turned to mush, his bruises started to ache, and he pushed the balls of his palms against his eyes. He didn't wait for any other order.

 _Fuck that faggot's orders_ , he thought as he turned to walk out of the school yard.

Mickey rushed back home, not like he had anywhere else to go. His dad was shouting through the house, as usual, so he dodged out of Terry's sight and slammed the door to his room. Nothing like another beating after an hour of incessant berating.

His father's shouts pounded through his head, shaking the walls of the house. Mickey let out a primal shout.

" _ **FUCK! Can't anyone get some fucking peace around here**_?" He shouted in response, grabbing a beer from beside his bed. He slurped it down quickly and chucked the can against the wall, unsure of whether he even made the basket. He turned on some music; metal was the best because it matched the chaotic noise in his head.

Fuck this place.

Fuck ROTC.

Fuck Gallagher...

He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, his mind lingering on the last thought. As much as Mickey wished, he couldn't think "fuck Ian" without thinking about getting fucked by Ian. He flopped back onto his bed and took a long drag on his cigarette. He closed his eyes and let out a hiss at the aches on his body. Mickey shifted uncomfortably and thought about the warm, brown eyes and that spark of bright red that glimmered behind them when he was feeling horny. His stomach fluttered again and a flash of heat rushed down to his crotch. He reached his hand down below the edge of his pants but hesitated. It wouldn't be the same as the real thing; besides, somehow Terry would find his way into Mickey's mind reminding him somehow that he was a backwards piece of shit. He grabbed for his shitty ass flip phone and let his thumb linger over the call button.

A/N : Fin. More to come. Also, all editing is done to assist in word flow, but it is extremely minimum. In this RP, I am playing Ian and my partner is playing Mickey.


	2. Homophobia At It's Finest

Disclaimer: First and foremost, the account holder and authors do in no way, shape, or form, own any characters, names, places, storyline plots, and so forth.

Disclaimer: This Fiction is the work of two authors: The account holder, PrettyBoyWithMe, and her **awesome** co-writer, SilentBobina. The account holder is one of the authors, as well as the editor. Please disregard all, if any, differentiation in the writing style.

Disclaimer: This Fic! Is rooted from a roleplay, rated M for sexual themes and content, language, and violent descriptions, as well as mental health stigma.

Disclaimer: The authors do not support the slurs used in character, in this fic

Disclaimer: Some ideas, memories, and references are owned by and to fictional work done by the FanFic author SilentBobina, and not this account or the account holder.

Author's Note: Welcome back! SilentBobina and myself have been having a BLAST writing this, may I note! She's amazing, so go and check out her work. She has some pretty badass Gallavich fics (as well as many more) which this fic will _**reference**_. xoxox

 _._

 _Fuck Gallagher..._

 _He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, his mind lingering on the last thought. As much as Mickey wished, he couldn't think "fuck Ian" without thinking about getting fucked by Ian. He flopped back onto his bed and took a long drag on his cigarette. He closed his eyes and let out a hiss at the aches on his body. Mickey shifted uncomfortably and thought about the warm, brown eyes and that spark of bright red that glimmered behind them when he was feeling horny. His stomach fluttered again and a flash of heat rushed down to his crotch. He reached his hand down below the edge of his pants but hesitated. It wouldn't be the same as the real thing; besides, somehow Terry would find his way into Mickey's mind reminding him somehow that he was a backwards piece of shit. He grabbed for his shitty ass flip phone and let his thumb linger over the call button._

 _._

It was Friday night, thankfully. What that meant was sleep for Ian in the morning, and he hadn't been so thankful for that in a long time. He was sore, that was the fuck for sure. Ian trudged into the bathroom off of the kitchen to wash his hands, and gazed at the ghost of a cut on his fleecy skin. Pathetic. Oh yeah. He had work for Kash in the morning. There went that idea.

As the warm water caressed Ian's hands though, he thought of a different caress. One that was rare, and rougher. How was he going to deal with Mickey? The more pressing question was when that raging asshole would show his face again. Any time Mickey even thought there was a chance someone would find out he took it in the ass, he hid.

With good reason, Ian supposed. _His_ father was more of a piece of shit than Frank, and that was saying something. It made him feel better to know that he wasn't really Frank's kid.

"Dinner LET'S GO GALLAGHERS!" With a quick gaze over his pathetic face, he exited for dinner.

.

It seemed like Ian was the only one Mickey called lately. It wasn't surprising, with Mandy always over there fucking Lip and Iggy in juvie for assault. He took a deep breath and pushed the bright green button. Each ring matched his heartbeat and reminded him that Ian was probably fucking pissed; and why shouldn't he be?

Mickey wouldn't ever be more than the piece trash that Ian had known all his life.

.

Fi had made lasagna, which was one of his personal favorites. Lip and Carl had already laid waste to half a dish. Luckily, Fiona always made four. Big house, big family, big appetites. Ian desperately needed a shower, but as he sank into his chair, the aches reappeared, and it could fucking wait. He laughed at a joke Lip made, and listened to Debbie chatter on about Carl's friend Little Hank; waiting to serve himself.

And then, the phone rang. Eyes were gazing at it, trying to spot the caller ID. All at once, everyone grabbed for it. Alas, Debs won, as per usual.

"This is the Gallagher residence. Who is calling, please?" Debbie had grabbed the phone from where it buzzed on the table.

Mickey cleared his throat at the girlish voice on the line. He wriggled uncomfortably fighting the urge to hang up. "Yeah's Ian around?" He asked. His finger lingered over the red button caressing it like a panic switch.

She listened and made a few polite noises before eyeballing Ian and mouthing - _**It's for you.**_

The whole family rounded to look at Ian, who shrugged as he was passed the phone. He rose, and went outside to take the call.

What would Mickey even say? Let's fuck, all that faggot talk got me horny? The thought made his stomach turn and as the phone shuffled and switched hands he took a deep breath and felt the rubber of the button giving ever so slightly just as Ian's gruff voice came through the line.

"Yeah?" He trumped into the mouthpiece.

"Hey," he began, unsure of anything; why he called, what he should say, how he could quell the flutter in his stomach. When Ian heard the voice on the other line, he melted into silence. "El tracks at 10?" He asked simply.

At least he could buy himself more time and who knows, maybe Ian would be in one of those moods where he'd rather fuck than talk. Another day; he could buy a whole day.

Mickey didn't wait for an answer. His finger shook and he tapped the red button as impulsively as he'd pressed the green button. Wasn't that some Matrix shit? He might as well jump into a rabbit hole with how tangled he'd felt lately.

"Fuck no!" But Mickey had already hung up, and Ian had only half meant it anyway. The pussy.

Shaking, he flipped the phone shut. That was just like Mickey, ordering him around. He chuckled with an angry undertone, knowing it was Mickey who got fucked, and not the other way around. He headed back inside.

"Who was that Ian?" Debbie innocently asked. Curiosity choked the air.

Ian was suddenly extremely nervous, so much so he began to sweat. "Mickey." The whisper came out louder than he intended.

"Milkovich!?" Fiona snapped her head up.

"Yeah, Milkovich. Is that a problem?"

 _Leave it the fuck alone, Fiona._ Begging her silently with his eyes, waiting to see if she challenged him.

"Come on, Ian. sit down and eat up. You'll need your strength for thugging around." She hissed.

 _ **Goddamnit, Fiona.**_

"I'm not hungry, but thanks." He stormed upstairs, leaving his empty plate.

He couldn't stomach the thought of food right now. He couldn't stand anything. He didn't want to be touched, or talked to. This complexity of charades with Mickey was getting out of hand. Mickey wasn't afraid of gays, he was afraid of being found out. Homophobia at its finest.

.

Mickey looked at the clock; Seven.

 _Too much fucking time to kill._

He deadened his music quickly and listened for silence. Thankfully, the yelling had stopped and Mickey poked his head out the door to see his father passed out on the couch. He let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding and headed into the bathroom. It had been a long day and maybe a shower would wash it all away.

Mickey closed his eyes and relaxed as the lukewarm water dripped dimly across his sore back. He ran his fists under the water and gazed at his tattoos with a grin. Nothing like ripped up knuckles to bring the message home. Still, he considered how he got into this situation in the first place and it always came back to that fucking carrot top—

"Fucking Gallagher," he muttered in irritation.

First things first, he'd tell Ian he could take ROTC and shove it up his tight white ass. He nodded to himself as he struggled to scrub off the dirty thoughts that invaded his mind. He let his hand wander down to clean his junk and it lingered there for a minute but again, the thought of flashes of red hair and incandescent freckled skin held him back. He shook it off.

Secondly, they can't talk at school anymore, he decided. Mickey's cousins had started to get suspicious and Terry was on high alert. Just last week he'd busted up this queer bar.

"Partially for the cash, but mostly for the fun." he'd announced with a grin.

 _I'm not that way. I'm not a fucking queer,_ he told himself for the millionth time. _I can't be._

.

Ian flopped on his bed, grabbing what was left of the Ounce Kev had donated to him, and rolled two fatties and a slim J. The J was lit immediately. Ian breathed with ease for the first time all day, taking another drag. It wasn't that he minded the fucking closet thing, nah. He got that, especially with the way Mick's pop was. The bastard.

Tears started to pour down Ian's pale face. He didn't even know WHY he was crying, or why he was so overwhelmed. These fucking teenage hormones just never quit. The world dissolved around him, as he drifted into an uneasy sleep, tears still pouring from his eyes.

.

Mickey got ready to meet Ian by dressing down; in a ratty old sweater, and drinking an entire six-pack of beer. Sometimes it disgusted him, the way he molded himself to his father's life but fuck it, what other options did a hood shit like him really have? He chain-smoked counting down the minutes anxiously...8:35, 8:40, 8:45.

Mickey's cousins burst in loudly around 9 so he ducked out the window to avoid their dumb-ass intrusive questions. It was only a matter of time before an angry and hungover Terry rose with a flood of noise; Mickey couldn't face that assault again today. Once he laid down under the tracks, he kept time with the vibrating tracks as he continued to smoke and warm himself with another beer. Maybe Ian wouldn't show. He had kind of pussied out on him after all. He closed his eyes and waited for that warm rush he felt whenever Ian was within a few feet of him.

.

An abrupt noise woke him. His alarm clock read 9:37 p.m as Lip and Carl rolled into the room, joking about something Ian was _positive_ Carl didn't understand; yet. The clock lazily flipped the minute.

"You good?" Lip offered as Ian rose, remembering he had somewhere to be.

 _Mickey._ That's where he had to be. _Shit!_

"Yeah sure fine gotta go." He yelled, tossing on an old David Bowie shirt and a thick black hoodie.

Ian pocketed the rest of the J, as well as the two blunts, and raced down the stairs and out the door before anyone could ask any more questions. He didn't know what was up with himself lately, but he hated it and Mickey Milkovich was his favorite fucking fix.

He arrived under the El with three minutes to spare. Relighting the J, Ian allowed some time for his eyes to adjust, pulling in the fragrant smoke. He let his anger boil down to a simmer as the familiar chill raced across every inch of him. Mick had beat him here, literally in the past.

"Since when is a Milkovich ever early? Especially you." He offered the jest out loud, unsure if his fix would even hear him.

.

Mickey felt the familiar heat and smelled the sweet stench of weed. Fuck yeah, something else to push away his racing thoughts.

"Gallagher," he greeted without moving.

He flicked away his cigarette butt and shrugged. "That place is a fucking zoo," was all he said.

He wondered if his absence would be noticed, who knows what bull shit his family would get into tonight. He took a deep breath before letting his eyes slip open easily. The alcohol had warmed him and the world swam brightly before his eyes. Ian's face felt like a breath of fresh air but he had to temper his expectations.

"So how'd you get out'a that mess? The serge take it up the ass for you too?" He asked bitterly.

He knew he had no right to hurl judgments about any of it. Not ROTC, not fucking around, not blaming him for the afternoon. He caught sight of the small scrape on Ian's cheek. As much as Mickey tried to be a badass, he often felt like Ian was the badass and Mickey was his bitch. Ian understood how he felt and wasn't afraid to show it. Ian could relax and take orders instead of lashing out like a beast.

Even so, he was still a bit hung up on how out of it the redhead had gotten that afternoon he just... couldn't show it, not after walking out like a little bitch.

"I ain't going back, but I hope..." Mickey trailed off.

He'd hate to think that he'd fucked up Ian's chances at getting out of here and living his dreams.

 _I'm a fucking piece of shit. Fucking up everything and living down to the Milkovich name._

He sat up and scooted across the El barrier that he was laying on to give Ian room to join him. He held out a hand and flicked his fingers, wordlessly demanding the joint. He'd need it to deal with the rest of this conversation. Did he, did he really want to talk it out? He wondered. He was such a little bitch.

Ian closed the distance, and took Mickey's hand in his instead; his large hand enclosing over the little pistol's smaller but angrier one. He pulled himself closer, going nose to nose with him. Ian's hazel's bore into Mickey's baby blues. He tightened his grip on his greatest torment.

"Shut the fuck up, Milkovich. If you think I'm letting you lose your one fucking chance out of this little shithole world, you are out of your fucking mind. You can fucking do this, Mickey."

Mickey stiffened as Ian invaded his space without a thought. He clenched his fist inside Ian's warm hand but refused to pull away. He held Ian's gaze hard and strong even as he craned his neck back to keep Ian's lips far from his own. This wasn't what he'd planned and his stomach fluttered as the other boy's soft gestures pulled him in helplessly. Ian gave him a speech that thankfully fueled the flash of anger he needed to scoff and push Ian away with his free hand.

"Fuck you, what's wrong with what I am?" He asked but his voice cracked softy.

He knew Ian was right that he wasn't worth shit, that he was a fucking maggot suffocating in the dirt of this South Side hell hole.

Ian took a long pull from the blunt, and offered it to Mickey, examining him for what was going on inside his head. Why did he have to make it so hard? The decision on how to confront this hadn't been easy. He'd mulled it over the three hours he spent scrubbing the hall floor with a toothbrush.

Mickey Motherfucking Milkovich, oh he hoped not, was not going to quit on his one chance out. Ian thought back to the conversation they'd had when Ian had brought up Mickey joining ROTC mid-fuck. Obviously, Ian had won; he planned to continue to win.

Mickey plucked the joint from Ian's hand and loosened himself from the redhead's grip. He shuffled away quickly, enough of that girly cuddling shit. And yet, something in his chest tugged painfully as he increased the distance between.

"You knew what the fuck you were getting into and I didn't, not with the ROTC shit. Fuck those assholes no one's gonna tell me what to do like a little bitch." Mickey took a few long drags of the joint and handed it back to Ian, very very carefully avoiding the brush of their fingers against one another. The last thing he needed was Ian getting in his head again, turning it fuzzy.

Mickey spat on the ground and looked away. Maybe he could distract Ian. He hadn't expected the fucker to be so wound up over something so pointless, so why not wind him up over something else? "You know what, fuck it, we shouldn't even be talkin at school anyway so just," he sighed deeply and tried to ignore the way his heart strained as he finished his statement.

"Stay the fuck away from me Gallagher." As soon as he said it, he wished he could take it back but Terry's slimy shit-grinning face popped into his mind and stopped him.

The feelings that were developing were like acid in Ian's mind. How could he go feeling like a pansy for a hard ass closet fag who thugs his way in and out of juvie AND any available pussy on a regular basis. Fiona was right, but he had decided he wouldn't let it stay that way. Mickey _was_ better than this. Ian saw it; all these little things that made up this man, and he was learning to love them.

Pussy feelings; fuck that. He braced himself, expecting some sort of retaliation, more likely physical than verbal, eyes solid as stone.

Mick bit his bottom lip nervously and turned to Ian. A dead feeling filled his chest and all he wanted was to close the distance between them and let the heat of Ian's touch make him feel something, anything. He chose anger as he leaned in close and pinned Ian's shoulders against the El tracks with his forearm.

"Capice?" He growled angrily, satisfied by the tingle that rushed through him at the intimidating gesture.

Ian straightened up as Mickey pinned him against the support beam. He had kept his face cold the entire time. He'd been trying to think through the problem, the way Lip always did. Break it down, hypothesize. Mickey fed off of his reactions, or so he thought. Now was not the time to test it, but that sure as hell didn't stop him.

"Fine."

He leaned forward and kissed Mickey. It was hard, and angry. Mickey barely had time to react to Ian's quick maneuver but the kiss sent a tingle to his crotch.

 _Finally, down to the fucking,_ he thought, prepared for Ian's rough embrace, the one that made him shiver with anticipation whenever he saw the boy.

But Ian didn't wrestle him into his arms, he didn't press against him with his warm sweet breath on Mickey's ear. Instead, he just walked away He shrugged out from under Mickey's pin with ease, a sidestep he'd learned at ROTC.

Ian walked quickly, snatching up what he hoped was Mick's half-drunken beer. Chugging it quickly, he then tossed it behind him, leaving the sweet shatter in his wake. He flicked the rest of the J over his shoulder, offended that the Milkovich had touched it.

 _Fuck Mickey fuck! Why the fuck do you have to be such a little punk ass?_

His composure was breaking down internally. Guys like Mickey need tough love if they want any, and Ian was willing to try. Anything, a-ny-thing to save this slumdog. For fucking why he couldn't say. It was Mickey.

Not his Mickey, because his Mickey was an imaginary asshole Ian made up to comfort himself.

He broke into a run after he rounded the corner, but he didn't cry.

Mickey's breath heaved heavy as that single word echoed in his ears. Fine. He felt disappointment welling in his stomach and he clutched it worried he might be sick, he had drank a lot and the weed was strong but he knew that wasn't it. He glared at the thin, receding figure of Ian in the dark and cringed as he clattered the can in the hollow, empty street.

"Fuck," He whispered and yet again, his head was fuzzy. Of course Ian left. He wasn't worth fighting for and Ian had said so himself. He was just some Milkovich trash who couldn't go a day without getting a fight.

.

Not until it was close to dawn and the house was quiet did Ian break down. Silently, he wept into his pillow. He had seen a secret behind those beautiful, icy eyes; Ian Gallagher was determined to be the first to read it. He shouldn't have kissed him, though. Ian once read that the surest way to kill a man was to kiss him once, then never again. The ball was in Mickey's court now as to whether he would step up or step out. Ian wiped his face, because either way, it wouldn't matter.

.


	3. Can I Get Some Fucking Service or What?

Disclaimer: First and foremost, the account holder and authors do in no way, shape, or form, own any characters, names, places, storyline plots, and so forth.

Disclaimer: This Fiction is the work of two authors: The account holder, **PrettyBoyWithMe** , and her awesome co-writer, **SilentBobina**. The account holder is one of the authors, as well as the editor. Please disregard all, if any, differentiation in the writing style.

Disclaimer: This Fic! Is rooted from a roleplay, rated M for sexual themes and content, language, and violent descriptions, as well as mental health stigma.

Disclaimer: The authors do not support the slurs used in character, in this fic

Disclaimer: We have limited to no knowledge about guns, their uses, makes, and models. All information below is a rough guess, to be honest.

Disclaimer: Some ideas, memories, and references are owned by and to fictional work done by the FanFic author **SilentBobina** , and not this account or the account holder.

Author's Note: Thank you for the patience! As a warning, this fic! Is going in dark places. If you feel this will be an issue, please discontinue reading so that you don't get to attached xoxo

.

 _Not until it was close to dawn and the house was quiet did Ian break down. Silently, he wept into his pillow. He had seen a secret behind those beautiful, icy eyes; Ian Gallagher was determined to be the first to read it. He shouldn't have kissed him, though. Ian once read that the surest way to kill a man was to kiss him once, then never again. The ball was in Mickey's court now as to whether he would step up or step out. Ian wiped his face, because either way, it wouldn't matter._

 _._

Mickey furrowed his brow and clenched his fists, grateful for the ache in his ripped knuckles. The pain caused the disappointment to blossom into the comfortable feeling of anger again. He punched the frozen concrete of the El barrier hissing in pain as his scrapes reopened and blood trickled down his fist. Gritting his teeth, he felt relieved that Ian was the dull throbbing pain at the back of his head now, and not the sickness that he couldn't drink, smoke, or fuck away.

 _Fucking queer._

He kicked at the barrier a few times before heading home. The cold stung at Mickey's eyes, hot angry tears forming in the corners; but he wiped them away, accidentally smearing blood across his face in the process.

 _You let that faggot turn you into this shitty ass mess,_ he reminded himself. Part of him growled back insistently that he couldn't help himself.

.

Mickey slammed through the front door and was immediately engulfed in a chaotic rumble of shouts. _What the fuck now?_

Terry caught him out of the corner of his eye. "Hey, Mick, who fucked you up?" he demanded.

"Mind your fucking business," he spat back, thankful that his cousins were busy trying to drag his dad into some idiotic scheme.

He slammed his door and sighed deeply. Even though it meant nothing, the shitty cardboard sign on his door telling the world to fuck off and die always somehow made him feel safe. He went to run his hands under hot water, losing himself in the searing pain of the wounds. He dried off his hands and raw, red spots made him flash back to that fiery red hair.

"Fucking left me with fucking blue balls," he grumbled.

He flipped open his phone but it was too late to call any of the nasty skanks he usually hooked up with on nights like this. Mickey sighed and lit up a cigarette before laying down and taking a few calming breaths. He glared up at the ceiling harshly. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep but the noise in his living room made him shake and he knew that the second he closed his eyes all he would see was Ian's pleading hazel eyes and angelic round face. In his mind Ian was always soft and satisfied, everything that he was not.

Mickey struggled to keep his eyes open and as the chaos in the living room quieted, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Maybe tomorrow he'd stop by Kash and Grab and see if Ian was around.

 _If not, who cares..._ he thought vaguely only to slip into a dream full of red hair, pale skin and smiling eyes.

.

Saturday morning in the Gallagher house meant silence until ten, unless Frank rolled in still brazenly drunk, or Fiona had to work, or some other bullshit happened. Ian, however, was up, showered, and dressed by six. He bolted out of the white, peeling door and rocketed off of the porch that had once put a splinter in his ass cheek. But, he didn't talk about that.

The world around him blurred as he set a steady tempo. Kash had offered to let him open the store at seven, since he and Linda were back to fighting. Again. Ian slowed as he rounded the corner to the Kash and Grab, taking the next twenty minutes to smoke through three Newports Lip had dropped him the night before.

Other than one crying fest, the jaeger-bomb ginger hadn't shown a speck of emotional loss in the direction of Mickey Milkovich. He wanted to fight for Mick, but Mickey had to fight for himself first. To realize that he was _worth_ fighting for. Anger bubbled under Ian's flecked skin. In reality, he just wanted to pull the smaller boy in his arms, and show him love like never before.

Ian used to wish Mick was more like Mandy, his best friend. She got it, and used her brain and not her cock to think. He supposed she didn't have one, but goddamn did that girl have balls.

His thoughts jumped tracks as he entered the store, counted a drawer, and flipped on the lights.

 _Mickey had better show the fuck up. Otherwise, this reverse psychology is fucking useless._ He mused aloud as he rotated the perishables.

Opening a bag of pork rinds for breakfast was unhealthy but so comforting. _**Crunch, crunch, crunch.**_

The sound always reminded him of when Fiona would make him breakfast when he was little and sick. She told him she would know if he ate, because she would hear him crunching, and he had to eat to get better. Mickey had to eat to get better, and more than just his cock. Mick was one fuck of a pole smoker, and it was better than the time Karen Jackson had tried per request of Lip.

Knowing that the store would be dead for another three hours or so, Ian settled down at the counter, and began to draw familiar shapes.

.

Mickey jolted awake angry. He **always** woke up angry; how the fuck else could he wake up when someone was always yelling or fighting or fucking in his living room before light barely passed through the blinds? This morning, the light seared into his eyes, and he remembered the one too many beers he'd had the night before. It wasn't long before Mandy slammed into his room, and he rubbed his eyes and temples at the pounding noise.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered.

Mandy's face was set in a characteristic scowl and she opened up his draws frantically.

"Mandy," he murmured.

She didn't stop.

"Mandy!" He shouted louder, standing up, and pushing against the open drawer with the full weight of his body, shutting it in her face.

It had been the drawer with his modest gun collection, and he sighed. "It's a little fucking early for murder don't you think?"

Mickey actually wasn't sure what time it was, but he was Goddamn sure Mandy was overreacting. Mandy rolled her eyes, and they both crossed their arms, staring one another down. Mickey had always connected with his sister more than any other member of his family, and something about that fact made his stomach queasy as they mirrored each other's movements.

"Karen Jackson's back," She said.

Mickey shook his head in confusion; _so another South Side whore returned, who cares?_ Mickey had fucked Karen once or twice, before he realized how much better it was to be the one fucked. _Shit, who hadn't fucked Karen?_

"And?" He asked rolling his eyes impatiently.

"Just thought she could use a little motivation to stay away from Lip," she mumbled, looking away.

Fucking Gallagher, he thought. How many Milkoviches could that family wrap around their greedy, think their better than everyone, self-fucking-righteous fingers. "Shit dude, is it really that much better over there?" He asked gruffly but he let his weight off the drawer.

As long as it was just for intimidation - then he wouldn't get in trouble. He considered what it might be like to wake up to a household that laughed and chattered and smiled as they all shared breakfast and he frowned.

"It really is." Mandy insisted and Mickey shifted uncomfortably trying to shake off his fantasy and the hurt of Mandy's happy second life.

"Alright well - just don't shoot the bitch." he said with concern, giving Mandy a pat on the shoulder. She threw him a devious smile and he rose his eyebrows staring her down seriously.

"I mean it. Or at least use some other asshole's gun." Mickey turned back to his bed and let Mandy go about her business. He lit up a smoke and looked at the clock. It was around ten, and Mickey silently wondered how long he could go without giving in and begging Ian to give him another chance; or, at the very least, fuck him one last time. The question was answered for him when he reached for a new pack of cigarettes from his spare carton, only to find it empty.

"Fuck," he muttered.

He opened his current pack, severely diminished from his nervous breakdown the night before. He only had three after the one currently in his hand; barely enough to get through breakfast, if you consider a beer and stale pop tarts breakfast. Mickey let his face fall into his hands and ran his fingers through his hair, only to start at the pain in his hand. He shook it out, and looked up to Mandy who stood in front of him with his sawed off shotgun and a look of glee.

"Shit, that's a little bit of overkill don't you think?" He asked.

She shrugged and turned to leave before he could stop her. "It'll scare the manipulative whore out of her at least," she said nonchalantly before disappearing.

Mickey gritted his teeth, stamped out his cigarette and lit another. He ducked into the bathroom and stared in the mirror; he looked like shit, and wondered how long he'd slept. He almost slicked back his hair to straighten up. _Nah, maybe Gallagher will think he fucked up if I look like I don't give a fuck_ ; he was tired of all the pansy shit he did to look good for that dick.

.

Mickey hurried down the street purposefully, his hands tucked in the pockets of his puffy jacket, **s** _w_ **a** _g_ **g** _e_ **r** in full force. He threw himself into the door of the mini-mart and grabbed the first good thing he saw, a bag of Cheetos, before sidling up to the counter.

By the time the bell rang signifying someone had come in, Ian had almost finished. Cold, icy eyes stared at him from the paper, and sent chills across his skin. Tucking the drawing out of sight, he looked up to see who had wandered in at ten on the dot. And there they were, mirrored on his favorite face. _"El tracks at ten."_ Ricocheted through his mind. Twelve hours since the ordeal with Mickey. Ian prayed he would be strong enough to get through to this boy. If not, he would be another number, just another face the South Side had chewed up and spit out.

Mickey barely looked in Ian's direction as he mumbled. "And some smokes." He watched the boy out of the corner of his eye, focusing instead on the cooler where they'd banged so many times. "And, uh, whatever else you'll give me," he ventured thrusting suggestively against the counter with a raised eyebrow.

Cold oceans met colder sands. He stiffened his chin as he gazed down upon the Milkovich. His Milkovich.

"You came to get fucked?" His voice was solid and icy, resonating in his chest.

Waiting for an answer, Ian reached a hand out to wipe some frosting from Mickey's lower lip. Mickey stood straight as Ian began to move, touching his face teasingly and ranting all the while. The ginger let his thumb trail there, and linger before pulling away, leaning against the counter. Something sparked behind Ian's eyes and Mickey knew that he was going to have to beg. He bit his lip nervously, fixing his eyes on Ian's face cautiously. His skin tingled from Ian's touch. His face turned warm and anger flashed through his chest.

"Call Angie. Or Xena. But don't fucking call me." Ian retreated, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Mickey fucking Milkovich. Hard ass mother fucker who likes to be bottomed out by the Queer of the South Side. Malcolm fucking Milkovich, who could and would kill anyone who looks at him the wrong way, but can't even look at his fucking self and decide what he wants." A shit-eating grin spread snarkily over freckled cheeks

"Fuck you, I'm just cashing in on those blue ball you left me with last night," Mickey spat back like an accusation.

"That used to be all it took to get you going," he pointed out. Clenching his jaw, and grasping onto the counter defensively, Mickey let his hand slide forward and slipped the cigarettes on the counter into his pocket. At least he got that for free, even if he had to sacrifice his dignity for the redhead's fuck.

"Or maybe you do know what you want, and this is it. If you just want a fuck, Mick, find someone else. I'm not your damned toy Mickey. You can't pick me up and play with me whenever you fucking want. Step the fuck up or step out." Ian wanted to kiss him, his anger boiling low in his belly; wanted to throw him against the fucking counter and do him there. The way Mickey liked. Mickey who was always such a dick, loved Ian's hard cock.

What did Ian want from him anyway? Mickey wondered, confused by the way that he slowly rounded the corner and closed in on him.

"What the fuck do you want, Mickey, besides me in your tight faggot ass and a pack of smokes?" He was closing the distance, walking around the counter, and coming up behind the dark haired demon. Ian leaned down, and breathily whispered in his ear. "You don't even like Cheetos."

Mickey had certainly done it this time. Ian was calling him out on every fucking thing even his fucking snack choices. He shivered as Ian's voice vibrated in his ear. Trying to steady his breath, Mickey found himself leaning back into the tall redhead, gasping gruffly. He sighed and turned to face Ian even though he wanted nothing more than for Ian to wrestle him close and give him what he came from. He slipped off his jacket, creating space between them with his arms. He threw it onto the counter and crossed his arms instead. Ian's eyes were so hard, not at all the way he imagined it the night before. He missed the times when Ian's eyes would brighten at the sight of him.

"Can I get some fucking service or what?" He snapped. He tried not to stare too intently at Ian's face but he found himself counting the boy's freckles, at least he wasn't thinking about anything too girly.

"Fine." The word rang out again, clear as day. "Get something you actually want to eat, besides me. And open your fucking mouth about what your problem is."

Mickey went to open his mouth but hesitated momentarily, taking Ian up on the offer of food. Fine. It was like the new f-word only far more impactful since he didn't say it ever other fucking sentence. He hardened his face and headed towards the aisle grabbing one pack of cherry poptarts and stuffing another in his pocket for later. It had been his plan anyway, might as well stick to the grind. He imagined his father's angry face, the one he dodged every morning by grabbing a quick pastry and ducking out. Ian kept rambling. He was always asking stupid questions. How was he? How did he look? Like a fucking wreck and he felt it too, the pain aching through his joints. Ian's face was mysteriously dark, challenging him to withhold.

Red hair shone in the flakey, washed out light as the Gallagher grabbed a bright green apple, and sunk his teeth into it. "The only time you talk more than me is when I'm fucking you. Try a normal conversation for once." He chewed thoughtfully, eyeing Mickey up for the first time in good light in a long time.

He looked- Ian didn't have a word for it. Somewhere between desolate and a maelstrom. Quietly, he watched the whirlpool rip around inside those gorgeous eyes.

"Mick, are you alright?" He asked with a stern force carrying his vocals. "I don't mean yeah you're alive and breathing, and hopefully you ate today. I mean are you alright?"

Taking a step back, Ian watched the nature of Mick. His fluidity; A tidal force that would rip you to shreds and watch with a laugh on his lips. Cold and calculating, with less of the latter. Mickey shoved half a poptart in his mouth in one bite and sighed. He'd never get what he came for if he didn't humor that asshole's concern.

"Of course I'm fucking alright, just the usual bullshit." If Mickey were a little more honest, he'd admit that he was lonely. If he were a little more open, he might take back everything he said last night and just admit that the flutter Ian sent through his stomach make him terrified. Instead, he stared straight into those hazel eyes, hoping that they'd soften just for him. I'm trying, he wanted to say.

How's Mandy?" Mick asked deflecting the conversation.

Ian had noticed Mandy had been doing so much better since his brother had taken her under his wing. Her grades were up; she didn't look so Night of the Living Dead anymore. She was sleeping, and eating, and living. She was recovering. Could Ian ever convince her shit-eating brother to try it?

No.

Ian's eyes froze again in the silence. Mickey didn't like him like that, as he was so apparently making clear. He liked him like three a.m. anal. Like breakfast with blowjobs, or sodomy on Sunday. Ian wondered if both he and Lip were idiots. Was his little pistol really just a coldhearted fuck machine that wanted him for what Ian could give him? He hoped not, brows furrowed, waiting. Insecurity circled like a murder of ravens, feasting upon his open heart. He was either going to get hit, he decided, or Mick was going to leave. Either way, Ian would never be worth it.

Mickey finished the pop tarts and crumpled up the wrapper, shoving it in his pocket. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, far more casually than he felt inside.

"I dunno why you're so hung up on this ROTC thing is all. I got other shit on my plate."

It was one of the more honest things Mickey had said lately. His dad had started dealing again and he'd been sending out Mickey with his brothers and cousins to knock in more teeth than usual. He felt strung out and wound up and the only thing that made the anger bubbling, forever ready to explode, in his chest disappear was the feeling of Ian's thin, bony hips pounding against him. Even a smile from the redhead would do but he couldn't feel that way. Ian was a fuck or he was nothing, just like anyone else and yet he held his breath as he waited for Ian to relax, smile, and forgive him.

Ian let him finish his pop tarts before closing the gap.

"You know how Mandy is. She stopped here before heading to your place. Something about needing something from you. So don't act stupid; because you aren't. You're one of the smartest people I know, like Lip but different." Ian was fully aware of the life Milkoviches led, and even more aware of how much time Mick should be doing, but wasn't.

"Yeah, well, she was a little fucking crazy when I saw her," he admitted.

He blinked in confusion at the compliment. Mickey never saw himself as smart. He struggled so much in school; fuck he wasn't even sure he could read, maybe he just memorized a lot of words.

"Yeah, sure fuck off," he mumbled but he smiled slightly, always one for a good compliment to stroke his ego. At least the asshole was stroking something of his.

The ice melted, molten gold flowing freely. "Come by tonight, Mickey Milkovich." He taunted with candy on his lips; a sweet serenade in five words. "Lip has Fiona's old room, and I've moved into the attic." He wanted to reassure his homophobic boyfuckfriend that he wouldn't be caught. Christ knows that's probably most of what Mick thought about anyway.

Moving in, as smooth as satin, his eyes afire with words unspoken, Ian sighed. He wrapped Mickey in his 300-push-ups-a-day arms, and held him to his chest, tucking his chin atop the spikey dark mop. Mickey let out the anxious breath he was holding as his wish came true and the redhead slid closer, his eyes softer and less defensive. Mickey let Ian slide his arms around him. He stiffened for a moment but something about the familiar smell of cigarettes, fresh laundry, and sweet deodorant he associated with Ian allowed him to let go momentarily, to be free. Would that be the way he felt tonight?

Mickey considered the invitation carefully. He certainly would love to avoid his house for a night and not a single fucking soul would be sober enough to miss him.

"Mandy," he protested gently, but he knew he would be there anyway. He licked his lips self-consciously and nodded.

"Fine, asshole, if it'll make you happy," he accepted grudgingly. "But I expect some kind of action," he insisted giving Ian a look that was half-intimidating, half-pleading.

"Just tell me what the fuck you want, Jesus Christ." He sighed into Mickey's hair. Pulling away, because he was fairly certain that faggola dot com over here hated any sentimental bullshit, Ian turned to go away. "And if you're going to steal something, Malcolm, at least try to not let the shopkeeper see." He crunched into his apple, eyes ablaze and watching

Mickey's heart sped considerably, banging roughly against his rib cage in terror and anticipation. Mickey tried to steady his breath as Ian whispered against him. What did he want?

"I'll tell you when I fucking figure it out ok?" He promised sincerely, wrapped in the safety of Ian's strong arms, an embrace he couldn't bring himself to return as his arms hung there limp. All too quickly it was over, the world came crashing down around him and the anger bubbled up again, insistent and grueling. He watched Ian for a long moment, the fire in his eyes causing the anger to leap into his throat. He raised his eyebrows and flicked his middle finger at Ian; Malcolm god dammit, why did he have to be such a shit head?

"Tonight," was all he said trying to act like he didn't care but as the door rang behind him, the flutter returned to his stomach and his face broke into a goofy smile; free. He turned quickly and left the store.

.

 **A/N: There ya go, cuties! This is definitely going to be along fic, with long chapters. Don't let that intimidate you because the chapters are gloriously written. Love!**


	4. Will You Butter My Potatoes?

Disclaimer: First and foremost, the account holder and authors do in no way, shape, or form, own any characters, names, places, storyline plots, and so forth.

Disclaimer: This Fiction is the work of two authors: The account holder, **PrettyBoyWithMe** , and her awesome co-writer, **SilentBobina**. The account holder is one of the authors, as well as the editor. Please disregard all, if any, differentiation in the writing style.

Disclaimer: This Fic! Is rooted from a roleplay, rated M for sexual themes and content, language, and violent descriptions, as well as mental health stigma.

Disclaimer: The authors do not support the slurs used in character, in this fic

Disclaimer: We have limited to no knowledge about guns, their uses, makes, and models. All information below is a rough guess, to be honest.

Disclaimer: Some ideas, memories, and references are owned by and to fictional work done by the FanFic author **SilentBobina** , and not this account or the account holder.

Author's Note: Things have been troubled as of late. But fuck it, the show must go on.

…

 _"Just tell me what the fuck you want, Jesus Christ." He sighed into Mickey's hair. Pulling away, because he was fairly certain that faggola dot com over here hated any sentimental bullshit, Ian turned to go away. "And if you're going to steal something, Malcolm, at least try to not let the shopkeeper see." He crunched into his apple, eyes ablaze and watching_

 _Mickey's heart sped considerably, banging roughly against his rib cage in terror and anticipation. Mickey tried to steady his breath as Ian whispered against him. What did he want?_

 _"I'll tell you when I fucking figure it out ok?" He promised sincerely, wrapped in the safety of Ian's strong arms, an embrace he couldn't bring himself to return as his arms hung there limp. All too quickly it was over, the world came crashing down around him and the anger bubbled up again, insistent and grueling. He watched Ian for a long moment, the fire in his eyes causing the anger to leap into his throat. He raised his eyebrows and flicked his middle finger at Ian; Malcolm god dammit, why did he have to be such a shit head?_

 _"Tonight," was all he said trying to act like he didn't care but as the door rang behind him, the flutter returned to his stomach and his face broke into a goofy smile; free. He turned quickly and left the store._

It sure as fuck was tonight. Ian was sweating in the shower, even though the water was close to freezing. He was nervous as all hell. Mick was coming by, and not to beat the shit out of him, Lip, or Frank; a goddamn miracle. _Maybe he'd actually stay_.

Ian got out, and dried off, thinking of how he'd cleaned and arranged his room. His big, queen sized bed under the sunroof, his dresser organized, everything folded and put away. Band and book posters littered the walls, as well as drawings from Debbie and Liam. He had vacuumed his black carpet, rolled two J's, chilled three cases of beer that Kev and Lip were hopefully not drinking.

.

Mickey wandered home, but only long enough to shower, pick out a nicer outfit (a sleek beige sweater and some dark pants), and grab his favorite pistol. No one was home, but he needed to be elsewhere to think seriously about what Ian had said. Shit, since when did Mick think on behalf of polesmokers? He headed to his favorite spot, the burnt out courtyard of the broken down factory on the edge of the neighborhood, and set up some empty beer cans he'd left last time he'd visited. Taking a long, deep breath to steady himself, he aimed. What did he want? He let off a shot that missed the bottles miserably.

"Fuck," he huffed. He shook out his hands and cracked his neck before aiming again.

He thought about how he felt about his plans for the evening; all flutters and smiles.

"I just wanna be near him." he hedged aloud, nearly inaudible. It seemed like almost nothing. _Almost._

Without the fucking, they might as well be friends; there wasn't much kissing or cuddling or other queer bullshit between them anyway.

Mickey liked the way things were just fine. _Hmph_.

He let off another bullet, crashing through the bottle stacked on top of the pyramid in a cascade of shattered glass. None of the other bottles budged, and he grinned maniacally. Malcolm was proud of his skill. He may not have been "smart". He may not have known what he wanted, but he knew what he was capable of and it was more than the ROTC fuckers could teach him. He sighed and held up the gun again, confidently.

Just a fuck and maybe a hangout; that was enough wasn't it?

He shot twice in a row this time, once he hit the bottle and the second time he hit air. Irritation at the game of mind-reading he was playing with Ian in this struggle demolished the pride he has just felt. What the fuck did Ian want? He wasn't the clearest motherfucker either. Mickey thought he'd made a statement by joining ROTC to spend more time with him, and it had gone straight to hell. Hell was **his** home, not Ian's. He heaved a deep breath and cleared the rest of the bottles with a string of well-aimed shots.

Tucking the gun into his belt, Mickey sat on the ground, smoked a cigarette, and quietly waited until the sky became bruised with darkness. He would turn the question-find out exactly what Ian expected him to say. And he'd fall in line, something he never thought he'd do.

.

Mickey headed straight to the Gallagher's, surprised at his brashness to take a direct route, hoping that he wouldn't seem too out of place, willing desperately that Mandy was too busy shooting what's-her-whore-name to check-in for dinner. He slipped in the back door and lit a cigarette. It seemed oddly quiet considering the sheer number of Gallaghers that lived in the tiny shit hole. He looked around anxiously, not sure what he should do. It smelled good, something warm in the oven, not at all like his own house.

"This is a home." He reminded himself. Ian's home.

.

By all miracles, Ian was alone in the house right now. Dinner was in the oven, and he had dashed for the shower. Ian headed upstairs, feeling like a pussy. It seemed like such "date night" shit, but **no**. He wanted to make _sure_ that Mickey was fed, and comfortable. They didn't have a whole lot, but things were better now that Fi and Jimmy were working. Ian cracked open a cold one, and stretched, cracking his stiff joints.

He put on some deodorant, decided against cologne, and slid into black jeans and a slouchy burgundy sweater. Ian laughed aloud. Thank God Mick didn't get his period. The ginger didn't know if he could handle that from this guy with how he was. But Ian loved how he was. Ian loved -

The oven timer went off, and he barreled downstairs, emerging into the kitchen, surprised to see he wasn't alone after all.

Mickey had just shuffled to the fridge looking for a beer when he heard someone behind him. He jumped and turned, fists raised on the defensive, and he smiled in relief when he saw it was just Ian.

"Jesus you scared me," he whispered quietly. "So where's the rest of the horde?" he asked looking around with wide, scared eyes.

Mickey popped open the beer and took a swig. It was only a matter of time before they all came parading in with a barrage of annoying-ass questions, just like fucking Ian; A whole fucking brood of Ian's.

Ian grinned sweetly, pleased to see Mick had put so much effort into coming to see him. He lingered on the stairs, eyeing him up.

"They mysteriously won a free dinner at that fancy ass restaurant by the river. Mandy helped me score it, and I sent her out for a nice night, like **she** , like _they_ deserve. So." He rubbed his hands together calmly. "It's just us for the next four hours. There's a chicken roasting in the oven."

Mickey grinned and chuckled lightly. His sister and Ian were truly his rocks, and he was always impressed by their resourcefulness. He relaxed a bit and leaned against the counter. "Well it smells great," he commented.

Something about the way that Ian had it all together and ready reminded him wistfully of his mother. It had been a long, long time since anyone had taken the initiative to cook a meal in his house, shit he wasn't even sure anyone could work the fucking oven. Ian dodged any sort of pussy shit Mick would have thrown up. "I wanted to make sure you were fed, and ready for tonight." He winked, smiling with the malicious, sexual desires coursing through his body. Mickey eyed him with a need twinkling amidst his oceans.

"I'm not letting you quit ROTC. It's your ticket, Mickey fucking Milkovich. You can do it, and I'm going to prove it to you." He purred. Mickey rolled his eyes,

Ian Gallagher, famed in song and story for his extravagant speeches, shut his mouth and crossed to the oven, leaning over suggestively as he checked on dinner. Something useful Monica had taught him. Mickey watched Ian bend over the oven and had to take another swig of beer to calm himself down. Apparently Ian wasn't going to let it drop, even in his little lady of the house fag routine. Maybe he'd drop his pants, instead.

Monica. The word burned acid in his heart, so he let his cock lead him past it, turning on Mickey and crashing his lips into the unsuspecting mouth. "Ticket to whe-" but Ian cut off his question with a soul-crushing kiss. Shit, he thought, all the air rushing from his chest. Ian wanted Mickey, wanted to fuck him until he forgot everything except Ian's name. Ian wanted to forget everything, everything but that tight little body pressed against his.

This was more Mickey's speed and he kissed back hesitantly, still not so comfortable with that much. At the same time, he wrapped his arms around Ian's waist slamming their hips together and kneading his perky ass. He actually gave a shit about this slumdog. The heavens fucking knew why, considering Ian KNEW what he was in for; nothing but heartbreak and hell. Monica had once told him that he had to live in the now, and he fully intended to do so. In Mickey Milkovich's ass, in his mouth. Wrapped around his body. Ian's cock twitched in his jeans, greedy and wanting.

Slowing, and taking a step back, the pale, lean man gave Mickey a moment to breathe, and to process what was happening. More than a fuck, he realized when Ian pulled away leaving him bleary-eyed and wanting more. His mouth hung open in awe and the gold eyes sparkled before him making his stomach and heart flutter in unison. He cleared his throat, every inch of him electric instead of fire.

"And then, I have an even bigger surprise, because you're smart enough to get it."

"A-another surprise Gallagher? Jesus, you plan to wear me out," he teased, hopeful that it was true. The whole smart comment made him furrow his brow in worry but he moved past it and ran a hand up to tangle in Ian's hair. His breath was heavy and he laid his head on Ian's shoulder, unexpectedly spent before the fun had even begun.

Mickey clenched his eyes shut and tried to push away the fear but so much lay out unknown in front of him; what was Ian thinking? What would Ian's family think? What did Ian have planned? He slipped out of Ian's arms when it became too fucking much, when his lungs stopped working and his heart sped too quickly.

"Well, Missus Milkovich," he ventured, worried the nickname would upset Ian, "dinner or bed?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. It didn't matter to him because he was here and they were safe; free.

"Missus Milkovich huh?" Ian blew an exaggerated kiss. "Unless you want me to burn your meal, I suggest you control yourself." The ginger moved with ease, and confidence. Something he had faked for a while; the blood rushed like wildfire through his veins.

Mickey was being warm, his eyes a serene liquid. "Do you have the ability to work some butter into the potatoes" he asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the stove top "Or does the lady of the house do all of the work?" He sneered and cackled like an asshole, turning Mickey's jeer around on him. His fucking queer.

"Will you butter my potatoes, Mister Milkovich?"

Mickey let a cocky half grin settle onto his face. It was comfortable, if unfamiliar. He looked from Ian to the potatoes and his eyes widened with insecurity. He could try, that's what he seemed to do best. He found all the necessary ingredients left out for him so he dolloped some butter into the warm doughy potatoes. His mouth watered from the thick smells of the comfort food he never got filling up the kitchen.

He hoped he hadn't gone overboard as he stirred and the potatoes turned a deep yellow color. He bit his lip in concentration. This asshole even had him doing housework. He stayed quiet, not wanting to talk about the memories that filled his mind; how his dad would've hit his mother if she'd burned the chicken, how he'd never have moved from the couch to butter any fucking potatoes. I'm not like him, he reassured himself as he paused his stirring in some Adobo to take a swig of beer.

Ian pulled the chicken from the oven with care, letting it sit on the rack on the cracked countertop to rest.

"The bird needs a few minutes. Gotta let the meat rest." He chuckled low in his throat as he cracked open his third beer.

He slurped half of it, and lit up a smoke, eyeing Mick from over his shoulder. He needed to breathe, or he was going to lose his composure. Lanky and solid, Ian hopped up onto the counter next to the resting chicken, the smell coating the house in warmth.

He turned to watch Ian who was relaxed on top of the counter as he finished up the potatoes. "Rest?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. "I'm the one that makes all the money not that sad sack piss poor excuse for a bird," he raised his voice in mock irritation, mimicking his sorry ass father's bitching. Why wouldn't that asshole's hideous twisted face ever leave his mind when he was with Ian?

 _ **Faggot**_ , it sneered.

Taking a long drag, Ian lazily, and blatantly, eyed his companion. "Nice sweater, by the way. It sets off the black of your heart." He meant it lightly, and hoped it would be taken as such.

"Oh yeah?" he threw back with a playful jab at Ian's ribs. "Well at least I don't got a soul for the army to steal," he insisted. He smiled and rubbed his hands across the boy's knees.

After Mickey telling him they couldn't talk at school anymore, Ian had vowed to try his best to show Mick he was worth it. At least that he'd try to be.

"You do good, you know Mick?" He looked up from Mickey's crotch, outlined in his dark pants. "I know you hate the sentimental bullshit, so I'll cut it short, but you do good. And you should know that. So call me a faggot or whatever, 'cause I know you heard me. And yeah." A blush crept across pale, frail cheekbones, lighting up each freckle like a Christmas light. Adoration filled his caramel eyes.

 _Ian had to go and ruin it._ He always pushed too fucking far with too many kisses and too many compliments. He was laying it on thick now and Mickey's face turned red with the bubbling anger returning.

"Fuck, Gallagher, stop slinging bullshit. I ain't ever gonna be more than what I am. I get it. You want me to be like you but-" he trailed off and looked around at the tidy and cozy, if crowded, house around him.

It was a stark contrast to the drafty, dull, dusty, roach-filled place he called home. He took a deep breath and stared at Ian's hopeful, eager face. There he was, the sweet happy boy from his dreams, only inches away but a world apart. Mickey sucked in a ragged breath and lit up a cigarette himself. Something about that face lifted him like a sunny day and he spoke honestly.

"You're the best part of me," he said simply, unable to continue staring into the golden sun of Ian's eyes.

Ian was taken aback. He knew he had pushed too far, but he wanted Mick to know. He had to let him know that someone cared. A pale hand rubbed knuckles playfully across the stubble there, gazing into baby blues.

"Come on and let me down so I can get dinner ready."

Mickey's every nerve was crackling and he backed away from the gentle touch, so different from what he was used to. He pursed his lips tightly and nodded stepping aside. The future marine hopped down, and fixed them both heartily portioned plates. The air between them remained taut but Mickey needed the space and could still enjoy the way that Ian moved so easily and softly around him. What was he so scared of? He shook gently as he watched Ian prepare his plate like some fucking kid.

"You probably like white meat." Ian winked, joking to lighten Mick's mood. He didn't want to push too far, and he knew bringing Mickey home was a big step.

"I sleep with your pasty ass don't I?" he joked. Ian cracked him up easily.

Mickey felt a rumble of unease in his stomach as he realized he hadn't said fucked, boned, banged, etc. Still, it seemed appropriate in the comfiness of their own little world. The little smirk on Ian's face made him hard, just that one little jerk of his lips did it for Mickey. He ran a hand across the small of Ian's back unconsciously as he took the plate.

Tonight, he was going to speak to Mickey in a language he understood. The raw, animalistic primalities of men. Specifically, his man. Mick had spoken in Ian's language, by stirring the potatoes, and miraculously fucking speaking. Even if it was bullshit, Ian didn't care. He was practically glowing like the sun, trying to contain himself as to not overstep with the man he - had over for dinner. He knew that Milkovich tried, and he couldn't ask for more than that. He sure as hell didn't mean to push Mick so hard; realizing that he needed to let Mickey breathe, and move at his own pace, Ian made a game change.

Grabbing a six pack from the refrigerator, and setting it on the table, Ian slid in the seat across the way from the other plate. Cracking open his fifth beer of the night, he waited for Mickey to settle in. Dinner was oven baked chicken, mashed potatoes that were thick and buttery just how Ian loved them, and some sautéed kale with garlic.

At the table, Mickey was grateful for the beer. Unbidden, he took two and chugged one quickly. He had stayed so clear all day working out the dark corners in his head all for those golden eyes that warmed him as they sat together at the long, nice dining room table.

"Okay okay!" He held his hands up in defense. "So maybe this is a little gay and housewifey." The ginger laughed at himself, sharing a warm smile. "But it's goddamn good." Ian took a sip of his beer.

"Are you kidding me!? It's fucking sweet! I haven't seen shit like this in years," he admitted with pep even as he showed just a piece of the darkness that was his life. "Besides, you are a fag," he pointed out with no malice or irony. It wasn't something he even noticed, just the way he grew up, part of his darkness.

"Can you pull the biscuits out of the oven?" He asked rising, in case Mickey said no.

Mickey nodded and stood at Ian's request without a second thought. He wasn't worried about being the bitch when he and Ian were alone. The boy never treated him that way. He brought the tray into the dining room and as the biscuits slid off the metal it caught onto his other forearm.

"FUCK!" He hissed, the biscuits and his spirit clattering to the floor in an instant. Just one slip up and he was done.

"Fuck," he muttered patting the rising blister carefully. He bit the inside of his mouth trying to stem the rise of the fire in his throat. That was when he realized; _I'm scared of myself._

 _._

 _ **A/N: I'll end there, and transcript the rest of the scene into the next chapter, since dinner goes on for a bit more. And then, then the boys hit the bedroom. Enjoy ;)**_


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